


Coronation

by Lydia_Eve



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Idiots in Love, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23324359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lydia_Eve/pseuds/Lydia_Eve
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley find a way to pass the time in isolation during the COVID-19 pandemic.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this story takes place during the COVID-19 pandemic. Characters deal with death and depression. That said, I did intend this to be somewhat cathartic on both the reading and writing side. I tried to be respectful while writing this, but please tell me if I've messed up. Be safe. Stay home if you can. ❤

The end of the world did not, in fact, change their lives all that much.

Sure they might see each other a little more often. Aziraphale initiates their meetings for dessert and liquor more than he used to. Crowley is a little more relaxed, finds himself a little less tightly wound. But for the most part, days pass, months pass, life continues as usual.

Crowley is still a coward.

While it all seemed a big deal at the time ― losing Aziraphale, thinking he was _dead_ , facing down heaven and hell, actually _inhabiting each other’s bodies_ ― they’ve reverted back. Nothing stuck. No declarations were made, “nice knowing you,” aside. Crowley tells himself that the next apocalypse will be different, yeah, but in the mean time, he’s got another 6000 years of pining after an angel.

He invites himself over to Aziraphale’s shop one afternoon, bottle of wine in hand ― it’s always 5:00 somewhere ― and calls Aziraphale’s name. The angel appears from between two bookshelves looking a little dusty, but beaming at Crowley, which is all that matters.

They finish the bottle, but they don’t end up opening another one. Their usual conversation is a little stilted. Aziraphale keeps checking his pocketwatch, looking at the door.

“All right, angel?” Crowley asks.

“What?” Aziraphale starts, looking flustered and ― guilty? “Oh ― ah, no. Not at all.”

Crowley frowns. “You sure?”

“Yes?” says Aziraphale. It’s more of a question than a statement.

Crowley stares at him for another beat. The last thing he wants is Aziraphale getting tired of him. “All right, then. I’ll just be off, then.”

If anything, Aziraphale looks even more distressed. “So soon?”

“Yeah,” says Crowley making a big show of stretching, like he’s not running away, terrified of boring the love of his life, “you know how it is ― still got some freelance mischief to take care of. Potholes in Knightsbridge aren’t going to create themselves, you know.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, voice wavering a little. “Very good. Right then. I’ll just ― see you out, then, shall I?”

Crowley shrugs like it’s not a big deal, like he couldn’t care less. Aziraphale hovers, twisting his hands, anxiously watching Crowley grab his coat from the hook next to the main door. The sunset shines bright through one of the shop windows, catching something and throwing meaningless patterns on the ceiling, which Crowley is staring at as he shrugs on his coat because he. Does. Not. Care.

One hand on the door, he glances back down in time to see Aziraphale step right up in front of him.

“You can’t go out there with your coat unbuttoned, it’s not even March yet,” Aziraphale says as though that explains why he’s suddenly so close ― closer than he’s been since their body swap, putting his hands on Crowley’s body, buttoning up the black coat for him.

“There,” Aziraphale says when he’s done. Crowley’s still staring blankly.

“Right,” he tries, still frozen by the door.

“Right,” Aziraphale repeats, still looking conflicted. He doesn’t step away.

Crowley hasn’t moved, _can’t_ move, is still dumbly trying to process what’s going on even though with the two of them standing stupidly in the doorway the answer is _nothing_ ―

And then Aziraphale kisses him.

Crowley manages not to squeak, though it’s a near thing. Aziraphale’s lips press distinctly to his. Crowley feels this like it’s happening to someone else because there’s no way it’s happening to him.

Aziraphale pulls away, stepping back, and looking no less anxiously at Crowley, eyes darting between Crowley’s, searching for something. A reaction, Crowley realizes. He’s expected to react. So he should do that, then. Now, even.

“Yes,” Crowley says. (Croaks.)

Aziraphale’s still looking at him. Aziraphale, who just kissed Crowley on the mouth, is standing there, waiting to see how his kiss was received. Crowley should say something to indicate that he enjoyed it.

“Right,” Crowley says again at length. “Well, thank you.”

Good. That should do it. He offers a parting nod at Aziraphale, pulls open the door, and leaves the shop.

The walk home doesn’t seem out of the ordinary. Birds chirp, cars drive, the world exists.

Crowley makes it home, though he’s as surprised as anything that he does so without being stepping into traffic and being discorporated. His flat remains the same. There’s a note from hell telling him to stop using magic on their dime, but he gets those every week. He runs his fingers absently across the granite countertop in the kitchen as he moves deeper into his flat. He sits in his throne. Stands by the window. Sits again. His fingers drum an unsteady rhythm against his desk.

It’s into the third week of this before he realizes he never did put those potholes in that posh neighbourhood. 

There’s a lingering smell of disinfectant in the elevator, and some sign above the numbers that Crowley doesn’t read. The doorman’s wearing gloves when he holds the door for Crowley. Under ordinary circumstances, Crowley might have noticed these things, come to some sort of conclusion. But Crowley’s still trying to piece out what happened last time in the bookshop.

He remembers being there, drinking wine. Aziraphale and his pocketwatch. Growing concerned about boring the angel, going to leave. Aziraphale had buttoned his coat, kissed him on the lips. Crowley nods to himself as he walks. He thinks he’s pretty clear on the order of events from that day. Yes.

He’s walking up toward Harrods when someone tells him he should be ashamed of himself for going in.

“No, I wasn’t going in ―” Crowley goes to explain, then stops. The woman’s moved on, and he really shouldn’t have been told that at all. Did they violate some labour law, maybe? Are people finally waking up about sweatshops? Crowley frowns. It’s unlikely.

He toes a little at the crosswalk near by, loosening up some of the asphalt with a little occult intervention. An SUV drives by next, turning the thing properly into a pothole. A shiny Mercedes comes next. The driver doesn’t know it yet, but he’s got a flat tire. Crowley grins a little, whistles to himself as he walks home.

Okay, and yes, people are avoiding him, giving him a wide berth as they pass him in the street. Sensing the brimstone? Even more unlikely.

His mobile rings as he’s toeing off his boots in his flat again.

It’s Aziraphale. Time to sound completely normal, Crowley.

“What’s shaking, angel-cake?” he croons into the phone. Swing and a miss.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says quietly.

“Everything all right?” Crowley says, suddenly serious.

“I’m afraid not,” Aziraphale says. “I wasn’t going to call until you ― but I figured given the circumstances… Are you following the news?”

Crowley is not.

“Kind … of?” he tries.

“There’s a new coronavirus,” Aziraphale says, “like the one in 2002.”

“Er,” says Crowley.

“Common Era,” Aziraphale says.

“Ah,” says Crowley. “Yes. I heard about it. Oh, it’s gotten worse, then, hasn’t it.”

“Afraid so,” Aziraphale says. “It’s here now. I just wanted to ― to tell you that I’m closing up shop. It’s what all store owners should be doing, and I want to lead by example in these times.”

Crowley nods. “Course,” he says.

“And I’m afraid I shan’t be leaving the bookshop until this over. People are encouraged to practice social distancing to, ah, flatten the curve, I believe is the hashtag.”

Crowley nods again. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t understand a word of that.”

“But hashtags were yours!”

Crowley grins. “Weren’t they just,” he agrees fondly.

“Oh, just ― look _online_ then,” says Aziraphale, pronouncing it like someone trying out a foreign language, which is ridiculous, because Aziraphale speaks every language.

“Fine,” Crowley agrees.

“Right then,” Aziraphale says, evidently having come to some sort of decision. “Well, I was just phoning to say that I’ll see you when this is all over.”

“Sounds good ― hold on,” Crowley says, “you don’t mean. _Do_ you mean?”

Aziraphale, who also speaks Idiot fluently, understands him. “I’m afraid I do mean,” he says.

“But ―” Crowley doesn’t know how to articulate that he’s lost without Aziraphale and can’t go an unforeseen amount of time without the love of his life. “I guess,” he says.

“I’ve been thinking, and I’m not sure we can’t get it,” Aziraphale says. “I mean, if we can eat and sleep and get hungover, then ― I don’t know.”

“We haven’t in the past,” Crowley points out.

“Yes, but we used miracles during the plague,” Aziraphale points out. “And I’ve been trying to conserve miracles since we were, well, laid off. Trying to stay under the radar, as it were. I know you’re doing the same.”

Crowley considers this. “I tossed my rubbish in the chute in my building yesterday,” he admits.

“See?”

Crowley is quiet. “Okay, well what are they saying, a few weeks?” Aziraphale is quiet. “Months?” Crowley asks. They’ve gone months before, obviously, they’ve gone decades. But this feels different. Crowley thought the end of the world would have changed things for them, not put them right back where they’ve always been ― exactly no where.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” Aziraphale says. “We can use a miracle to survive it, but if we were to pass it to the humans… I’d never forgive myself, Crowley.”

Crowley knows about never forgiving oneself.

“Of course, angel,” he says with a confidence he does not feel. “That’s a good idea. Just stay indoors until… Until it’s over. No problem. Lots of Netflix. You got your books. Just. Yeah.”

“Right,” says Aziraphale. “Well―”

“Yes,” Crowley says. “I should go too.”

“Okay, then,” Aziraphale says. “Goodbye, Crowley,” he says, and it feels heavier than it normally does. Crowley hates it.

“Goodbye, angel,” he says, and the line goes dead.

Stay inside. Stay inside without Aziraphale. Stay inside with his thoughts of Aziraphale without the real Aziraphale. Stay inside and don’t go crazy. Of course Crowley can do that.

He makes short work of _The Simpsons_ , seasons 4 – 14. _Parasite_ and _Little Women_ are next. He terrorizes the plants, reorganizes his records, thinks about Aziraphale. There’s something important he’s missing. On the seventh day, he rests. Intentionally going to sleep with a finger tossed at the ceiling before he snugs in.

On day eight, he wakes with a start.

“Hello?” Aziraphale says when he answers the phone.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says breathlessly.

“Yes? Is everything all right?”

“You kissed me,” Crowley says in a rush.

Aziraphale breathes a startled laugh. “Yes,” he says, sounding a little amused, but still mostly uncertain.

“And I ― I said ‘thank you’,” Crowley says, overpronouncing the words.

“Er, yes,” Aziraphale agrees. The fact that he hasn’t hung up on Crowley yet is a complete miracle. Crowley feels bad flipping the ceiling the finger since it’s clearly divine intervention that has saved him from himself.

“You _kissed_ me, and I said _thank you_ ,” Crowley repeats with growing horror.

“Yes, I _was_ there,” Aziraphale says with a sniff.

Crowley throws his head back, outraged that he could be such an idiot. His spine folds nearly in half with the effort and he’s glad Aziraphale can’t see him having a silent fit.

“Angel,” he says when he’s recovered a little.

“Yes, Crowley,” comes the reply, decidedly irritated now.

“You kissed me ― no wait, don’t hang up,” he says as Aziraphale makes another annoyed huff. “Why did you do it? Please, I have to know. Were you being … friendly? Or was it like when the humans do it, and it means―”

“That one,” Aziraphale says, cutting him off. “I did it because I have feelings for you.”

Crowley throws another exuberant but silent fit, jumping up and down in his socks on the concrete in total silence and even totaler gratitude.

“Aziraphale,” he says when he’s done a final spin. “Yes. Please. I mean ― me too. I have feelings for you too.”

It’s so inadequate, nearly as inadequate as _thank you_ , for fuck’s sake, but it’s _there_. He’s gone and said it and he can’t take it back. Would never.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. Then, “You do?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Crowley says. “Loads, acres of feelings for you. Totally full of feelings, me.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale again, though sounding much more pleased now. Crowley’s smiling like an idiot, and Aziraphale sounds _happy,_ and ― “thank you,” says Aziraphale, and hangs up.

Crowley blinks at the phone. “Bastard,” he says affectionately. Another quiet dance occurs.

The days go on. Aziraphale finally calls back, clearly pleased with himself.

“I thought angels would be above petty revenge,” Crowley says, dripping off the couch. His arse is on the cushions, but his head and shoulders are on the floor, his socked feet swinging in the air above the couch. It’s not _comfortable,_ exactly, but it feels right.

“It wasn’t petty,” Aziraphale says, affronted. “It was important! Imagine waiting centuries to finally gather the courage to kiss someone ― to finally feel safe enough to do so, and the object of your affection says _thank you._ ”

Crowley laughs, feeling happy and _free_. “I suppose said object needed to learn a lesson,” he admits. “Though one might say he was punished enough with the knowledge that he had an opportunity to finally kiss the _object of his affection_ and instead blew it like an idiot. Living with that knowledge alone would be hell, I should think.”

“Well, he shouldn’t feel too bad entirely,” says Aziraphale, ever the soft touch. “He might be given another chance once all this is over.”

Crowley holds the phone away from his head for a bit to bite his fist in utter elation. He brings back the phone and clears his throat. “Might he?” he asks.

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale agrees, “he might― er. Do we have to continue in third person?”

“Hell no,” Crowley says and beams as Aziraphale laughs.

“Oh, good,” says Aziraphale. Then casually he continues, “What would you do if you were here right now?”

Crowley falls off the couch.

“Crowley?” 

“Er, yes, angel,” he says. “I’m here. Sorry.”

“Quite fine.”

“Could you, perhaps, repeat your last question?” Crowley asks, a little faintly.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, a little flustered, which only supports Crowley’s theory about what he might have meant. “I just think about ― if you were here,” Aziraphale says. “If we were having a drink in my back room. Is there anything different you might do.”

“Ngk,” says Crowley.

“Never mind,” Aziraphale says quickly, “it was a silly―”

“I’d kiss you,” Crowley says as quickly as he can. It’s suddenly achingly important to tell Aziraphale exactly what he would do if given the chance. “God, I’d kiss you, angel.”

Aziraphale draws a sharp breath. “You would?” he asks in a small voice.

“Oh yes,” Crowley breathes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for centuries, and if I was there, with you, right now … I’d kiss you like a priest kneels before an alter. I’d kiss you until the only word I knew was your name.”

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale says in that way of his that means he’s feeling especially fond of the demon. “I want that so much.”

“Maybe…” Crowley starts. He’s thinking about the drive to Aziraphale’s. How nice it might be to ride this out together. He wouldn’t have to see a single person on the way there. Except the doorman, and what’s one miracle? He’d even wipe down the elevator buttons on the way out.

“Maybe what?” Aziraphale says. It’s the voice of a man ready to be tempted. He knows what Crowley’s going to say, and is waiting for Crowley to do the dirty work. He’d say yes, Crowley realizes. Only―

“Maybe it would be harder to get a body if we were to discorporate now,” Crowley says quietly. “I don’t think they’re too happy with us down ― up ― there.”

Aziraphale sighs. “You’re right, of course. It’s a risk right now where we don’t need one. We’re perfectly good in our respective houses, and it’s not like this will last forever.”

“Of course, angel.”

Only it starts to feel like forever. First Italy, then Spain. What Crowley can’t get over is the speed of this thing. He sleeps about 12 hours a day, and when he checks his phone in the morning (afternoon), he can’t believe how much has changed already.

He works his way through Supernatural, which he doesn’t even like, but it does fill up the hours between talking to Aziraphale and dreaming about Aziraphale.

“Are you still awake?” Aziraphale asks one day.

“Mmm?” Crowley answers. Aziraphale had asked to talk with Crowley as he got ready for bed that night, as he lay down between the cool sheets. It was romantic and kind of hot at first, but they’d been talking about Twelfth Century Russia, and honestly, Crowley was nodding off.

“But you were there in Novgorod at the time, weren’t you?” Aziraphale asks.

“Sure, everyone who’s anyone was,” Crowley says.

“Really,” Aziraphale says.

“Nah, it was a bit of a letdown, to be honest. I was only there for―” Crowley gives a gigantic yawn ― “a minor damning, which actually the local guards got to before I even arrived, so.”

“Oh, my dear, you must be exhausted,” Aziraphale says. “What time do you normally go to sleep?”

“Eh,” says Crowley, who’s a little bit lost track of time these days, “Maybe three lately? Haven’t slept this much in a while, to be honest.”

“Oh, and it’s almost five now. We’ve gone and talked the whole night. I should let you go.”

“Don’t mind,” Crowley murmurs into the phone. “I’d never sleep again if it meant talking to you.” He turns the words over in his head. It’s a little more than he meant to give away, but honestly, Aziraphale must know already.

“Oh, I’d never ask that,” Aziraphale says, distressed.

“I know, angel,” Crowley says, his eyes drifting shut. “I know you’d never.”

“That’s quite a romantic thing to say, though,” Aziraphale says thoughtfully, having apparently decided he’s not that distressed after all.

“Big romantic, me,” Crowley says sleepily.

“Even willing to forgo sleep,” Aziraphale says in agreement.

“Yeah,” Crowley says.

“So what would we do instead?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley’s eyes snap open.

“What?”

“If I were there with you,” Aziraphale says in that prim voice of his. “What would we do?”

“If you were here with me?”

“Yes.”

“In my bed.”

“Yes.”

“With me.”

“Just wondering,” Aziraphale says lightly.

And Crowley’s awake now. In fact, all of him is waking up, making itself known in a very, very real way. Obviously he’s had this fantasy a thousand times before, including the previous night when it helped him … take his mind off the global pandemic. But he probably shouldn’t share all of that with Aziraphale right away, though the angel _does_ seem to be asking for―

“I honestly don’t know what I’d do if you were in my bed, angel,” Crowley says with a broken laugh. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. Even the thought of it is overwhelming.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you doing anything you’re uncomfor―”

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley says. “Please. It’s not that. I’d do anything to have you here with me.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes.

“And ― and I’d try to kiss you,” he adds, “if I wasn’t completely shaking apart by then, I’d kiss you.”

“Oh, my dear,” says Aziraphale.

“You have to know,” Crowley continues in a rush. “I want you. The thought of you here, _touching_ me… oh, angel.”

“Anything,” Aziraphale says quietly. “Anything you wanted.”

Crowley buries his face in the pillow at that. It’s so much. “God, angel, I’m even turned on right now. Just the idea of you.”

“Touch yourself,” Aziraphale tells him.

Crowley can’t help it, he moans. The hand that’s not holding the phone gets shoved down under the blankets to wrap around himself. “Ohh,” he manages.

“Are you doing it?” Aziraphale asks.

“Yeah,” Crowley says, unable to believe it, but he is.

“I want to do it myself, bring you off nice and slowly, but you’re going to have to do it for me tonight,” Aziraphale says.

“Fuck, angel,” says Crowley who’s loving Aziraphale’s ability to talk dirty.

“Stroke yourself, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “Slowly. Tell me what it feels like.”

“Ahh,” Crowley says, his back arching off the bed. “It’s so good, Aziraphale. I wish it was you. I want you. I want you.”

“I know,” Aziraphale says, he sounds breathless.

“Are you doing it too?” Crowley asks.

“No,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley stops.

“Don’t you want to?” Crowley asks. He’s suddenly terrified that Aziraphale doesn’t want this. That he’s been describing things the angel has absolutely no interest in. Does Aziraphale even make an Effort?

“Oh, my dear, of course I want to,” Aziraphale says. “The idea of having you in my hand. Of touching you and taking you apart, Crowley, you have no idea.”

Halfway through Aziraphale’s reassurance, Crowley had resumed his stroking because Aziraphale had such a mouth on him.

“Tell me,” Crowley begs.

“I’d undress you to start with,” Aziraphale says now, “lay you out before me. I’ve always wanted to see you like that, you’re so beautiful.”

“God, Aziraphale, I want to go faster,” Crowley says, squeezing his eyes tight.

“Not yet,” Aziraphale says and Crowley moans. “That’s it, let me hear you. You’re making the most exquisite sounds for me.”

“All for you,” Crowley pants between breaths.

“Then I’d make sure you knew your gift was appreciated,” Aziraphale says with a smile in his voice. “I’d want to get my mouth on you, taste you everywhere.”

“Please,” Crowley says. He’s shaking. Even with as slow as his hand is moving, he’s painfully close.

“I’d want you to come in my mouth,” Aziraphale says. “I’d want to make you come every which way.”

“Angel!”

And Aziraphale is merciful. “Touch yourself like you need to,” Aziraphale says. “I want you to come.”

At Aziraphale’s words, Crowley’s hand speeds up. He’s sweating and trembling and so, so close.

“That’s it,” Aziraphale says as Crowley loses control of his moans. He’s just crying out with every jerk until he’s coming hard into his hand, crying out for an angel.

When he comes down, Crowley can barely think.

“Aziraphale, you’re everything, that was ― you’re amazing, I want you so much.” Crowley’s babbling and he doesn’t care.

“Yes, my dear, I feel the same way.”

Crowley heaves a sigh and pads naked to the loo in search of a washcloth.

“Not going to waste a miracle on cleaning up,” he mutters to Aziraphale, who seems pleased with himself.

“I wish I could lick it off you,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley drops his towel. “Guh.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “When this is all over,” he reminds him.

Crowley resumes his cleaning, heading back to bed when he’s done. “And is there anything I can do for you?” he asks, grinning like an idiot in love.

“No, my dear, not tonight,” Aziraphale says. “I want to leave you knowing you’ll get the sleep you need.”

“I’d make it good for you, angel,” Crowley promises.

“I know you would, dear,” Aziraphale says. “Next time.”

“Mmm,” says Crowley, who indeed is feeling extremely relaxed.

“Go to sleep,” Aziraphale tells him. “Call me tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow,” Crowley tells him, eyes closed now.

Aziraphale chuckles. “You know what I mean.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Good night, Crowley.”

“Aziraphale?” Crowley says, eyes opening in the darkness. It’s suddenly important Aziraphale not hang up yet. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

Crowley bites his lip. It’s not the end of the world, but it kind of feels that way, and besides, it’s killing him to keep it in.

“I’m in love with you, you know,” Crowley says softly. “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember. You’re … you, and ― I just wanted to tell you. Good night, Aziraphale.”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale says, and there’s a long silence. Crowley pulls his phone back to look at it, but the phone call ticks forward, well over six hours now. When Aziraphale speaks again, it’s in a near whisper. “I love you so much, my dear,” Aziraphale says, bringing a sudden stinging to Crowley’s eyes. “I wish I hadn’t been so scared for so long. But I’ll never let you doubt it again. I love you with all my heart, Crowley.”

It’s a lot, but it’s not too much. Crowley presses his fingers to his eyes to keep the tears from falling, and somehow manages. “That’s …” he takes a gasping breath, unable to continue.

“I know, my dear,” Aziraphale tells him. “For me too.”

Crowley sob-laughs into the phone. The sky has turned from black to navy outside his window. “Okay,” he says, “good.”

“It is, isn’t it.”

Crowley breathes another laugh. “I don’t mind Good if it’s with you,” he admits.

“I know,” says Aziraphale in a way that suggests he’s always known. He probably has, the bastard. “Good night, Crowley.”

“Good night, angel.”


	2. Chapter 2

They keep having sex, for a given sense of the word. Crowley was near delirious the first time he heard Aziraphale come, convinced that this was a dream and that he was going to wake up any second now.

“I love you,” Aziraphale tells him every time. “I wish you were here with me.”

“God, I wish that too, angel. Soon.”

But it’s not soon. It’s May now and things are worse. Europe is in shambles, the UK struggles to keep their head above water, but everyone’s drowning. There are reports from all over the world about ventilator shortages and doctors having to prioritize younger patients over older, about people dying in their homes and the military coming days later to cart away the bodies like during the plague.

Domestic violence is also at a new high. Shelters are closed. No one can run away to a friend’s. There are overdoses and murders and all kinds of secondary deaths that wouldn’t have occurred if it weren’t for the coronavirus.

In the grand scheme of things, Crowley knows he, personally, is just fine. It’s not that long. That he’s immortal, and has loved Aziraphale for thousands of years, what’s a few more months. But every day starts feeling like eternity, even though he’s sleeping through the majority of it.

One day he wakes up and doesn’t get out of bed. Aziraphale calls in the evening as usual, and they talk into the night. Crowley had trouble falling asleep after that, even after the mind-shattering orgasm Aziraphale coaxed out of him. He finally gets out of bed for the first time in 24 hours. His flat is dark, the bedroom light spills a little into the hall, down a bit into the living room. He pauses in the doorway, debating, but there’s nothing in the living room, there’s nothing in the throne room. There’s the plants, but misting them suddenly feels like a lot of work. He sits down there on the floor.

Aziraphale calls the next day, but Crowley doesn’t pick up. He’s still there on the floor, scrolling through the news, glancing at Twitter. That his phone hasn’t died is something of a miracle. He sees Aziraphale leaves a message and smiles because that’s barbaric. Obviously the angel can’t text on his rotary phone.

Time passes and Crowley drags himself back to the bed, finally falling into a restless sleep.

“My dear, I worried about you,” Aziraphale admonishes him when they talk next.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Crowley says, and he is. He’s so sorry, so fucking sorry.

“You mustn’t let this get to you, my love. We’ve spent time apart before. And yes, all right, this does feel especially long. Cruel, really, but ―”

“It’s not just that, angel,” Crowley tells him. “I think I’d be like this even if you were here. It’s just … everything.”

“Oh, Crowley.”

“I know.”

They lapse into silence. Eventually they exchange a few more words and hang up. Their phone calls become less frequent. Crowley’s scared he’s ruining things with Aziraphale before they even really begin, which wouldn’t that just be his fucking luck. The Almighty is having a laugh at his expense, he’s sure. At the expense of the whole fucking planet.

There’s a point where the numbers start going down, and places _reopen,_ despite urging from scientists. The government tells people to be cautious when resuming daily activities. It’s a disaster. Everything’s closed again within six weeks. Many people hadn’t bothered going out, Crowley and Aziraphale included. They’d listened. There’s a nightclub that had reopened that has since been burned to the ground by protestors. They think it’s responsible for over a hundred new cases.

In a point of desperation, Crowley pulls open the door to his flat, stares blankly into the hall. There’s a lightbulb out, which maintenance hasn’t replaced. Who knows if maintenance even still exists.

He flicks a penny at the door across from him, though a little down the hall. He thinks he hears footsteps, so he throws another coin. Eventually there’s a second of darkness over the peephole, and the door opens.

“Is that you?” his neighbour asks. She’s wearing a mask.

“Yeah, didn’t want to knock,” Crowley says, leaning from his doorway.

“Smart,” she says. Crowley can’t quite tell, but he thinks she looks pretty tired.

“Are you sick?” he asks.

She nods. “Yeah, I have it. I work at the Royal London hospital. It was only a matter of time. Half my colleagues have had it.” She pauses. “Two died.”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says. “I thought hospital staff had better protection.”

She shrugs. “Sometimes. But sometimes might as well mean never. I’m surprised I didn’t get it sooner, to be honest.”

“Do you need anything?” Crowley asks her.

“Dennis is good about letting deliveries go upstairs,” she says. “I have all the food I need, but … people need more than food and water to live, you know?” she says.

Crowley knows this all too well. “My … partner,” he says. “We haven’t seen each other since February.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Are they okay?”

“He’s fine. Just…” And suddenly Crowley feels insane for even mentioning this to a fucking doctor, fighting on the front lines, who’s lost friends. Crowley’s a monster, but he already knew that. “He’s fine. Doesn’t matter. What can I do for you? What do you need?”

She breathes a laugh. The mask balloons out a little as she does so, and Crowley suddenly wants to close his door. He’s very aware of the six meters between their doors. “Nothing,” she says. “To see my sons. It’s been since February for us too.”

“Are they all right?”

“They’re with their dad, and he’s a good father even if he was a shit husband. They’re teenagers, so they don’t need me so much. We talk on the phone.”

“I don’t know,” Crowley says, remembering falling from heaven. It’s a memory that’s never faded, still clear as crystal. “I think most people still need their mums, no matter what age.”

She nods. Crowley sees tears well in her eyes above the mask. God, this is horrific. 

“I’m Anthony,” Crowley says.

“Ana,” she says.

When he closes, the door, Crowley feels both better and worse. He’s slumped against his front door, one leg sprawled out in front of him. The sunlight works its way across the floor, eventually makes it to Crowley’s socked foot. The lime green fleece glows in the light like a radioactive popsicle. _I like pears._ He stares at it until the light is gone.

It’s a sign of the times that the plants are happy to see him on the days he finally strolls into their room. He does his best to talk to them, but his heart isn’t in it.

“Droopy, wilting, you’re all disgraceful, you know,” he informs them, misting at random. “Someone ought to whip you in shape, that’d show you. Foliage drill sergeant. Would serve you right. Bet none of you can do a half decent push up…”

Phone calls with Aziraphale are stilted, quiet. They’ve never had trouble making conversation before. They still have endless stories to tell. Crowley knows Aziraphale hasn’t heard the one about the misplaced tabernacle in Fifteenth Century France, which he’s surprised he hasn’t told before, to be honest. By the end, the thing was so defiled it wouldn’t even singe when he picked it up.

He doesn’t have it in him to tell the story. He hasn’t jerked off in weeks. He and Ana sometimes talk from the hallway, but eventually she recovers and goes back to work.

Summer turns into fall. Things have gotten both better and worse. Better because the medical system and government turn into highly efficient, militant organizations that can test for the virus in 20 minutes and pass legislation in record time. Worse because the death toll keeps climbing, climbing, climbing, climbing…

In the beginning there were nicer stories in the news about neighbours helping each other, people dressing up as Wonder Woman and going around to children’s windows. Now there’s nothing but criminalization of all kinds of things and an increase of suicides.

A knock on his door startles Crowley out of his reading. He’s reading _The Stand,_ but he’s reread the same paragraph six times now.

Ana stands in her doorway, mask-free.

“How’s it going?” she asks.

Crowley leans on the frame. “Can’t complain,” he says, because he really can’t. “How’s Thomas and Javier?”

“Javier’s done his novel,” she says. “It’s terrible, but I’m still so proud of him. I wasn’t writing novels at seventeen.”

“Me neither,” says Crowley, who was hanging the stars at that age. “Was kind of into art, though. How’s Thomas’s sculpture?”

“Good,” says Ana.

They shoot the shit a little. Ana asks about Aziraphale, but there’s so little to say.

It’s September, and schools don’t reopen. More people die. Celebrities die. Their fans don’t react. Everyone’s numb or drowned. Crowley can scarcely remember what breathing was like. He thinks it was a little like that day in the bookshop when there were sparkles on the ceiling and an angel on his lips.

One day Crowley wakes up and thinks this is the day for a tiny miracle. He got shit from hell for helping Ana recover, but he’s pretty sure they’re not going to do anything. And honestly, at this point, he doesn’t care.

“Big plans tonight?” Dennis ask as he hits the automatic door opener for Crowley on the way out.

“Rock concert, maybe an orgy,” Crowley says, and Dennis laughs. Crowley hasn’t heard a laugh in weeks.

The military patrols the streets, which is more than alarming, but for one reason or another (the other reason), they don’t notice the black Bentley crossing all the new checkpoints within the city. Crowley makes sure they don’t notice the young father trying to drop off his daughter at her mother’s house on the other side of town either, hell be, well. Damned. All of them.

The bookshop is so familiar is catches Crowley off-guard. He half-expected it to look different, but it’s the same as it ever was, even if nothing else is. The curtains are drawn, but there’s an angel in there.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, when he answers the phone.

“Angel,” Crowley croaks. His voice is barely recognizable. “Come to the window. Please.”

“What? Oh, Crowley, you _didn’t_.”

He’s sitting in his car. He won’t get out of his car, won’t roll down the window. He won’t run to the door and beg Aziraphale to let him in, but―

“I had to,” Crowley says.

The curtains open, and there’s Aziraphale. He’s wearing an oatmeal-coloured cardigan over a sky-blue tartan shirt, the phone receiver pressed against one ear. He takes Crowley’s breath away.

“You look like an angel,” Crowley says, his throat tight.

“Darling,” says Aziraphale. He raises a hand to touch against the glass. “Oh, Crowley, it’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, angel,” he says, and sobs. Suddenly it’s too much and he’s overflowing, tears pouring into his lap.

Aziraphale is crying too. Crowley can see him through the two layers of glass, across the street that separates them.

“Crowley, this is unbearable,” Aziraphale tells him.

“I know,” Crowley agrees. “But, God, I can see you. You’re so beautiful. I’ve always wanted to tell you that.”

Aziraphale laughs through his tears. “We’ve waited so long,” Aziraphale says, and it’s true. A few more months is _nothing,_ and yet it’s killing them. It’s everything. They might as well still be on opposite sides.

Crowley rests his forehead against the glass in his car and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to take his eyes off Aziraphale, but the angel is near-blinding. Just a minute. When he looks back, Aziraphale smiles.

“I love you,” Aziraphale tells him.

“I love you,” Crowley says.

The drive home is long. He forgets to miracle the military and a man yells at him, threatening to detain him until the man has a sudden case of diarrhea threatening to explode, and the man hastily lets him off with a warning.

When he gets back to his apartment, Crowley doesn’t leave the couch for a week.

The news gets worse. It’s everywhere. There’s another resurgence in China, where it looked like they were recovered. Crowley and the rest of the world takes that news hard.

COVID-19 memes are at an all-time high for humour, Crowley especially likes the one about Ernie and Bert, because there’s only so much people can take.

He sleeps on the ceiling for three days straight, next to the spider that’s been living there a few weeks. They both sleep soundly, for a change. Crowley can’t tell if it helps. Doesn’t care.

“It’s so nice to hear your voice,” Aziraphale says when Crowley calls. They haven’t spoken much since Crowley came by the shop all those weeks ago. “How have you been? How are you filling your days?”

“I’m okay, angel,” Crowley says. “Not doing too much lately. _The Testaments_ was good, you were right.”

“Yes, but I recommended that over a year ago. I don’t think it’s particularly cheery reading for these times.” He sounds worried.

“It was better than _A Fine Balance_. Which ― which I also read.”

“Rohinton Mistry? Oh dear. No.”

“Yeah. But look, that’s not why I called.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale asks. He sounds interested. Crowley hasn’t called with any sort of purpose in months.

“Yeah.” Crowley smiles.

“Well, don’t leave me in suspense, you demon.”

Crowley chuckles. “It’s nothing much,” he says. “I was just thinking about you. I was touching myself and thinking about you. I was wondering if you wanted it too.”

There’s a brief pause ― it’s been months ― then, “I want nothing else these days,” Aziraphale says.

“Tell me,” Crowley pleads.

“I can’t believe I know how you sound when you come, but I’ve been denied the taste of you, your touch,” Aziraphale says.

“Want to touch you,” Crowley says. “Want to feel you in me.”

That’s not something they’ve really discussed, and Aziraphale’s silence tells Crowley he knows it too. Aziraphale seems to like the idea, because his voice is lower when he speaks.

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale says, “I’d take you any way you wanted. Work you open nice and slowly until you beg me for it.”

Crowley’s breath catches. Arousal shoots through him. “Yeah, God, Aziraphale.”

“In fact, you should do it for me,” Aziraphale continues.

“Okay,” Crowley breathes.

“If by some miracle, there’s a bottle of lubricant under your pillow, you could use that,” Aziraphale says, completely innocent.

Crowley’s hand slides up under the pillow. It’s there, all right. Apple-flavoured.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” Crowley says.

“Do they?” Aziraphale asks. “Oh dear. That’s a shame.”

“No, it’s―” Crowley grins. Aziraphale is always adorably behind the times. The current times being a global coronavirus pandemic. People dead in their houses. “Angel, talk to me.”

“Put a finger in yourself,” Aziraphale says immediately.

“Are you touching yourself?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “I’m desperately hard for you, my love.”

Crowley moans at that.

“Do two fingers,” Aziraphale says in a low voice. “Pretend it’s me.”

“Every time,” Crowley promises. “I pretend it’s you every time. I want you to fuck me. I want your body in mine. I’d be so good for you, angel.”

Aziraphale’s breath is speeding up. “You can’t _say_ that,” Aziraphale near hisses. “Oh, Crowley.”

“What, that I’d be good?” Crowley teases. “That I’d moan at your command, bend over whenever you wished, fuck myself alone in my bed because you asked me to?”

“ _Oh_ , I’m so close,” Aziraphale says.

“Do it,” Crowley pants, “I’m right behind you.”

So Aziraphale does. He cries out as he comes, fueling all of Crowley’s fantasies. Even if this whole thing is a dream, he has wank fodder for decades from this memory alone.

God, he wishes it was a dream. Well, not the Aziraphale part, the rest of it. The part about addicts falling back into old habits. The booming human trafficking. Homelessness and hunger.

“Oh, my dear, that was amazing,” Aziraphale says. “I want you to feel good too.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, fist flying over his cock, his other hand pushing in behind him. He’s a mess of sweat and desire. “I’m close.”

“I wish I could see you. I’d do anything to kiss you right now,” Aziraphale says. It’s everything Crowley every wanted to hear. If only he had Aziraphale here. If only Ana could see her sons again. God, just a little closer.

“Angel,” Crowley pleads.

“Fuck yourself,” Aziraphale tells him, and oh, that word from Aziraphale should honestly be enough.

It’s not.

When they hang up twenty minutes later, Crowley has reached a new low, which is always fun and exciting. He is too exhausted to cry. He falls asleep smelling apples.

Winter comes. Grey snow falls from a grey sky and turns to grey slush. Crowley can see it from his window. Can see the tanks splash through it as they roll down the streets. The country isn’t at war, the Prime Minister reminds everyone. That might be the strangest part of all.

An email comes on one of the darkest days saying Dennis Kuznetsov has died of the virus. Crowley doesn’t know who that is at first, until he sees the email was sent from his condo corp. Dennis, the doorman. Crowley hadn’t known his last name. He was just the nice guy who loved dirty jokes. Crowley’d always liked him.

As a rule, he tried not to get too attached to humans. It never worked. Will, Freddie, Cleopatra. He’d cried for all of them. Stupid humans, always dying.

Days come and go. Crowley sees it all as though played at fifty times the speed ― the sun rises, seeps through the windows, climbs all the way up the walls, fades, darkens, blackness, blackness, repeat. Crowley sits crosslegged on his granite countertop and paints his nails bright orange because why not. It’s hideous, but not enough. Crowley adds a bit of baby pink on every other nail. Still not great. He uses the acetone to partially take off the colours on his fourth and fifth finger on the left hand. Paints over the smudged mess with metallic bronze. Decides that accidentally made it look better, and screams in frustration. He’s not sure why. No, actually, he is.

“How are the boys taking it?” Crowley asks Ana as they sit in their doorways, dimly illuminated from behind by the lights in their flats. All the lights in the hall are out now. The power’s still on, for now, but no one’s around to change burnt bulbs anymore. Not an essential service, apparently.

“Well enough, I think. They saw their grandparents so rarely,” Ana tells him. “It’s my ex taking it hard. It was always hard having his parents still in Spain. He feels horrible that he couldn’t be there with them.”

“I’m sure,” says Crowley. “When was the last time you were there?”

Ana takes a moment before she responds. “You know? Only 2019. We went for Christmas. It seems like twenty years ago.”

Crowley can relate. “I’ve been to Spain. Beautiful place. Love Madrid.”

Ana agrees with a pleased smile. “You know, _corona_ in my language means crown,” she tells him.

“Yeah, I know,” says Crowley, immediately thinking of how much of his total fluency he can share without seeming too strange. Already he’s wearing tinted glasses in a dark hallway. It’s a miracle (it’s not) that Ana talks to him at all. He’s thinking about this instead of realizing where Ana’s going with this. “Why do you say?”

“It’s a beautiful word,” Ana says simply. “There was a girl I went to school with named Corona. I don’t think it’s an accident that the word is here now.”

Crowley gapes at her. She ― no. He kind of wants to tell her what he thinks of that, but she’s literally a doctor on the front lines. She’s lost friends, hasn’t seen her kids in a year. She knows how ugly this thing is.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Ana tells him. “You’re not a theist, then.” It’s not a question, which is good, because Crowley doesn’t have an answer.

“I don’t think God did all this for a _reason_ ,” Crowley says instead. “Unless the reason is to kill a bunch of innocent people and make others sad about it, in which case, you know, mission accomplished.”

 _Temptation accomplished,_ says the memory of Aziraphale in the sun. It breaks Crowley’s heart.

“I don’t think so either,” Ana says thoughtfully. “I think it’s a sign from _us._ From _humans._ ”

There’s a silence. “Oh yeah?” Crowley says, hoping she’ll explain. He couldn’t say why, but he’s intrigued ― no, not that. Not intrigued. _Invested._ The thought confuses him. Tugs at something he should know, but can’t remember.

“I don’t know,” says Ana. “I’m not saying things are going to go back to normal. I’m a little bit terrified by that new bill. I think the world is going to change, and not necessarily for the better when this is all over. And then there’s the fact that nothing’s stopping all this from happening again in five years with some new virus.”

“Yes, very bleak, full points,” Crowley says.

“But it’s not a coincidence that we talk about the beautiful _corona_ ― the sun, a crown, a sign of majesty.”

“Shakespeare said ‘uneasy lies the head that wears a crown’,” Crowley points out, having forgotten about wanting to seem chill.

“See? You’re doing it, too,” Ana says, pleased.

“No I’m not! Doing what?” Crowley’s just a hot mess.

“Doing what we’ve done since the beginning of time. Making your own story. _Where the falling angel meets the rising ape._ ”

Crowley blinks. “Terry Pratchett.”

“Very good.” Ana glances into her flat, her face in profile for a moment. She could be any human in the world in the dark. “That’s what humans do. We get to decide which story to lay over the tragedy. Which way we’re going to act. You can’t tell me you don’t think it’s going to be beautiful again one day.”

_To the world._

“Ana…” Crowley says. He’s not even sure where to begin.

“Or not,” Ana says. “Maybe aliens will invade and we’ll all die tomorrow.” She laughs like Crowley’s not having a silent breakdown. “How does an unemployed lunatic know Shakespeare, Pratchett, and Spanish, anyway?” 

Crowley laughs, and it feels good for a change. “Self-employed,” he says, because the distinction is important these days.

Ana laughs just as freely. “My point exactly,” she says.

The plants are glad to see Crowley when he returns with a watering can proper. The mister is woefully insufficient for some of the victims in his hall. He dumps several liters of water into the plants, moves a few of them next to the window for a little extra light. He can’t save the world again, but he can water his fucking plants. He can change the lights in his hallway because the answer to the riddle is one fucking person. The ladder he miraculously finds in his closet squeaks loudly when he opens it, but it does the trick. Using his mobile as a flashlight, he pries off the covering with a screwdriver (the drink ― but because he’s convinced it’s going to work, it does), and replaces the six lightbulbs in the hall.

“Let there be LEDs,” he says when he’s done.

Things don’t get better after that. The winter is long and cold, and, yes, there are rolling blackouts, which scare the crap out of people.

“Remember the Blitz,” Aziraphale says.

“I remember a dramatic rescue,” Crowley says with a grin, painting his nails a bright blue to match his fuzzy socks that day. It’s not bad.

“You saved my books,” Aziraphale says, something strange about his voice.

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that,” Crowley says, finishing a second coat.

“You forgot?” Aziraphale says, then laughs suddenly.

“What?” Crowley asks, smiling at the sound of a laughing angel.

“Nothing,” Aziraphale says. “Just a nice memory.”

“Books,” Crowley says. “Figures. Why do you mention the Blitz, angel?”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. “I’m just sitting here in the dark. The power’s out on my street. Everyone’s afraid, so many people are dying. It feels like the Blitz.”

Crowley takes a second before answering. Screws the lid back onto Unsettling Blue (purchased for the name, obviously. That the colour is nice too was only a bonus.)

“No, it doesn’t feel like the Blitz, angel,” Crowley says slowly. He’s been thinking for a few days, trying to remember that which he should never have forgotten.

“Just a little, I meant. Certain similarities, I suppose.”

“No,” Crowley says again. “It’s not the same at all. This isn’t a war, even with that stupid bill they’re trying to pass. In a war there’s us and them. In this, we’re all on―”

“Our side,” Aziraphale finishes, and Crowley knows he got it.

“Angel, we made a choice that day, to stand against heaven and hell, but it wasn’t just that. We chose to stand with _them._ We can say we saved the world for the movies and desserts and music and Twitter, but we have all that still and everything’s a mess. We’re missing each other. I don’t think we’re the only two sods out there dying to see each other. I think we’re having a very human experience right now.”

Aziraphale sniffs into the phone. “You’re quite right, my love.”

“I wouldn’t change any of it,” Crowley tells him. “There’s not a second that I don’t want this ― the heartache and depression and _aching_ for you, because this is our side. I don’t want heaven or hell. I only want this. With you.”

“Crowley.”

“There’s going to come a day, angel,” Crowley says, remembering Ana talking about the _corona._ “It’s going to be beautiful.”

It is, but there’s so much that’s not. The death toll reaches over a million worldwide, and that’s just deaths directly from the coronavirus. So many emerge traumatized. So many emerge guilty. There’s no justice for them.

Later, Aziraphale and Crowley will stand hand in hand at the vigils, at the ceremonies where they unveil a statue to honour the dead or praise the living who made it all possible. Each time they go, they remember that they could have done it alone, as they’d done all of the world’s tragedies before, but they squeeze each other’s hand and make love at night. They remember that they have each other now, and that’s everything.

“But we still had to do it alone,” Aziraphale will say, showing Crowley real estate ads for lavish flats and sterile mansions. At some point Crowley will tell Aziraphale he liked the cottage by the sea the best. “I won’t go without you again.”

“We’re all alone,” Crowley will say. He’ll make that sound a little more romantic in his wedding vows.

Pain continues. There are always talks about _resurgence_ which is the new scariest word in the English language. People aren’t going to forget this one. The world is forever changed.

They’ve been told to come out of their houses before, so naturally there’s mistrust this time around too. But the numbers are low, very low, and they think they’ve got it this time.

“Can I come over?” Crowley asks one day. “They think this is it. Are you comfortable with that?” He keeps his voice casual, but he’s shaking so hard he drops the phone twice. He’s seen some hideously emotional reunions on Twitter, overheard one at Ana’s the night before, and desperately wants that for himself.

“ _Please,_ ” comes Aziraphale’s answer, and Crowley is sitting in his car before he remembers to hang up the phone.

It’s a miracle traffic is light on the route to the bookstore. Crowley doesn’t know if it’s Aziraphale’s or his or maybe just dumb luck for once.

Aziraphale is standing on the sidewalk when Crowley screeches onto the street. He throws the thing in park and leaps out of the car with the engine still running. He hasn’t even thought about sunglasses.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale cries when he sees him.

“ _Angel_ ,” is the last thing Crowley is able to say for a long time.

They stand on the sidewalk clutching each other and crying. There’s applause at first because everyone knows what’s happening ― everyone’s seen it for themselves now. Crowley can’t tell how long he’s been holding Aziraphale, just that it’s not as long as the time he spent without him, and that’s got to change. It’s horrible and beautiful and _human_.

At last Crowley thinks he has himself under control enough to pull back and look at Aziraphale. The angel smiles through the tears in his eyes.

Crowley carefully brings up a hand to Aziraphale’s face, brings them close. They kiss in the street in the middle of the celebrations and love and pain.

“I love you,” Crowley says against Aziraphale’s lips. He kisses him again because he _gets_ to. Crowley is exquisitely certain that he will never be happier than he is right now. (He’s wrong.)

“I love you too,” Aziraphale says, smiling, _smiling_.

Crowley drops to his knees right there because he has to worship ― not God, not even an angel ― the man he loves. He takes both of Aziraphale’s hands in his and presses his head to them.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says. He gently removes one hand, but graciously allows Crowley to keep the other. He strokes Crowley’s hair and tells him the lies of love. “It’s okay, my love, it’s over, we’re safe.” It feels good to hear it.

If they take a century sobbing on the street, Crowley would just be happy to feel the touch of Aziraphale’s hand in his. He kisses Aziraphale’s hand and looks up, ready to say so.

Aziraphale, not for the first or last time, takes Crowley’s breath away. He’s so beautiful. Standing with Crowley ― with humanity ― there, in the middle of London. The sun shines brightly behind him, touching his hair with gold, but not like a halo. Like a crown.


End file.
